


And They were Inmates

by Pachua



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-06-19 11:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pachua/pseuds/Pachua
Summary: Šime Vrsaljko is about to undergo a hellish experience in his new life behind the bars. He hadn't planned on getting caught, but then again, he also hadn't planned on spending his days smuggling Domaćicas, starting fights with other inmates, and falling in love with a former mobster who just happens to be his cellmate. To survive the dangers lurking around every corner, Šime is forced to join one of the most notorious prison gangs called the Blazers.





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing that hit him was the stench. The terrible odour smeling of dirty socks and armpit which made his nose wrinkle in disgust.

Šime Vrsaljko was clad in the garish orange prison jumpsuit, keeping his head up high and following the frowning middle-aged guard—Barney? Bernie?—whatever his name was. Truth to be told, Bernie looked more like a wanted criminal than a guard thanks to his intimidating bulky shape and shaggy half-shaved face, with a stare so intense it felt as if he could kill you just by looking at you.

None of this helped to ease the overwhelming fear which Šime was desperately trying to conceal. The tension was practically radiating from his body.

He felt terrible.

_He doesn't belong in this place._

The new prisoner did his best to ignore all the ogling stares focused on him. The taunting voices would have made him feel even more uncomfortable if that had been possible.

"Hey whassup, C.O.! How many fish we got in the block today?"

"You're gonna like it here fishy, you know what I'm sayin'?" the tittering continued.

"Well if that ain't nice! This motherfucker is gonna get it for sure..." he even heard a whistle or two after that.

The hoots and hollers made Šime's ears burn, turning completely red from embarrassment.

His trail of thoughts was still occupied by the sheer shock and disbelief of being in this particular predicament.

How many prisoners here have tried to claim innocence like him? How many deluded, sick bastards believed what they did wasn't wrongful?

It was nothing new.

They usually said it so persistently that it stopped holding any meaning. They thought themselves victims of the government, victims of the judicial system, of planned set-ups, bad luck, or all of the above. Even if you were as innocent as you claim you were, no one would have really taken you seriously. Šime usually did take such exclamations with a grain of salt, but now he barely managed to restrain the urge to kick himself for allowing the situation to progress to this level.

_He was in prison._

A real prison with barbwire fences, drug dealers and possibly knife wielding psychopaths ready to slit his throat whenever they felt like it. Maybe they even held cannibals here. These were only some of the many contents prison Altcourse had to offer.

This private prison is located in the Fazakerley area of Liverpool, in Merseyside. Accommodation and facilities compromises of six accommodation units, a First Night Centre, a Healthcare Centre and three Vocational Training residential units. Altcourse is separated into two main halves by facility buildings. There are seven main wings on the site with each unit block being color coded for easier identification. Most of the buildings in the yard appeared pretty shaggy, indicating they were built with extremely limited federal funds. The ugly gray walls were blighted and crumbling, seeming like they were ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Each of the said blocks normaly house between 65 and 90 prisoners.

For the duration of his stay, Šime will have to accept the Foinavon block as his new home. If he behaves, he will hopefully be out of here within two years time.

Looking back now at all those moments of pure euphoria, with alcohol in his system and adrenaline pumping through his veins—no, in the end it really wasn't worth the trouble.

Four months ago, he would have denied it.

Squad's acts of vandalism were the only thing making his life interesting. It fierced his will, ironed his nerves, made him feel truly alive. Living the life to the fullest brought a sense of satisfaction to him, he always loved the taste of danger and high risk. Šime knew if someone had asked him before, his words would have contained no regrets.

Only now did the horrid realisation manage to creep up on him.

Stealing that car was without doubt his biggest mistake, the biggest regret that would haunt him until the end of his days.

It really was one hell of a car, though. A brand new Toyota Prius, sleek and fast. Ranking highly in the crowded and competitive compact class thanks to its fuel efficiency, nice interior and not to mention the comfortable ride. He hadn't planned on getting cought, but sadly, he was caught.

_God._

He would have killed himself if he could travel back in time. How could he have let this happen?

Ahead of him, Bernie muttered something, then stroked his scratchy beard. He was leading the prisoner down a long corridor, buzzing with extremely bright artificial lights. They made a turn to the right, then proceeded to march in a wide open area containing a few long steel benches.

Šime noticed several other prisoners, all wearing the recognisable orange jumpsuits, none of them particularly friendly looking.

He spotted maybe a dozen inmates almost as heavily tattooed as himself. By the bench to his left stood an enormous dude in his forties—a real giant of a man. He was inked from the bottom to the top, even his face was covered in various tattoos, highlighting the silver nose and lip piercings which even Šime considered an overkill. The greasy hair and dirty uniform made it hard not to notice. Especially since he lacked most of his front upper teeth. It was hard to ignore freaky looking roughnecks like him.

"Can't do that, mate! As I said, Pigeon got on over him! He said—"

"—We know Larry! We heard it after Morris kicked the bobos with the blond one. Fucking chomo had it coming."

Everyone laughed.

"Fuck ya'll, I'll stamp your retarded faces in my shit, ya fuckers! Try to mess with me again, I dare ya!" Šime managed to catch a bit more of what they were saying.

He quickened his pace slightly, unwilling to fall behind. They were passing by a trio of prisoners when one of them—who had to have the most outraged face Vrsaljko had seen since coming here—pushed passed him roughly, almost making Šime stumble.

"Watch where you're going, you lil' fuck!" he heard the man say in a stern voice.

Šime doesn't say a word, he just glares at him. The man—who had to be at least 6'2 feet tall—had taken an aggressive stance, looking pissed and irritated. Judging by the expression on his face, Šime could tell he wasn't one to mess around with. He was strong, athletically built, his left tattooed arm clenching with anger, as if anticipating violence, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Everything about him screamed trouble.

"Don't mind his sorry ass fellas—Mr. Mo Good here just got knocked of his square 'cause our man Charlie got him mollywhooped like a bitch!" the tittering of fellow inmates broke out once again.

"Yeah Mario, you better fall back unless you want more trouble with the C.O. That newjack almost got you back in the cut the other day." said a man behind him.

The man had blond hair with a ponytail and an undercut, looking amused and immensely enjoying himself. He was leaning back against a wall and laughing uncontrollably.

Despite how strange his appearance might have seemed, Šime did not find it distasteful. With sleek blond hair, he looked like the kind of man who would have had a blast starring as a house Targaryen character from the Game of Thrones series. Šime could already imagine him riding dragons with Daenerys, conquering Westeros and shit.

"You keep running your mouth too much, Domo! Keep talking shit about me and I'll beat ya'll bloody!" said the one they called Mario.

To his left, there stood a jet black haired man with a square jaw, reminding him of some handsome action movie protagonist. He appeared non bothered by the other two's shenanigans.

Šime guessed that must be the Charlie guy.

"Enough! Who do you even think you’re mean muggin’, punk?" the bickering continued.

The chorus of righteous indignation washed over Šime, but he kept his stride.He was a stranger in a strange land and all of them knew it.

When you end up with this bunch, there aren't many secrets which can stay hidden for long.

He is with the new ones, the bitches, fish, fresh meat, whatever they get called here. In a place like this, reputation is what precedes you, follows you almost hauntingly. Having a reputation is a double-edged blade, it can grant you respect from other inmates and provide protection, but it can also condemn you to a terrible fate and create mortal enemies.

Šime luckily didn't have a reputation yet, so he decided to leave such meaningless inner debates for another time. He is probably one of the most normal prisoners you would find in a bizarre hellhole such as this.

That does no good to his sanity, considering he will have to share a cell with someone who likely possesses a more dangerous and hostile attitude than him.

He tried not to think about the violent and gruesome images his mind accidentally created just now.

"Move it, I say! And if you even think about causing me trouble, be assured you've got something bad coming for your convict ass." Bernie warned with a snarl and pushed him forward.

After walking a few more minutes, the two stopped in front of what Šime assumed was his cell.

Number 51.

Home, sweet home, he guessed. It felt more like a tomb really.

Bernie then opened the cell door, gesturing for him to enter.

In hopelessness of the situation, he still thought about trying to reason with the guard, even though it was obvious it wouldn't do him any good.

He still had to try.

"Hey, guard! Bernie-man...can't we talk about this for a second? Listen, I don't think—"

"Boy, you shut your trap this instant, or I'll shut it for you! I have nor patience nor the time for your sick convict bullshit! There's still work to be done. Now get inside and stop testing me!"

Šime went quiet as soon as he started talking. Being a grown man of the age of twenty-six, he could hardly be called a boy, but the malicious intent in Bernie voice spooked him out, so he decided to let it slide. He hurried inside on shaky legs, trying not to let his fear show.

He still wanted to run, but the metal door behind him soon locked with a _thwunk_. The first thing he did was focus on locating his indigenous cellmate.

But the cell was empty.

There was no sign of the said inmate, other than a neatly made top bunk and a few possessions hidden from eyesight.

The newcomer had to admit that being confined in such small space brought a renewed sense of claustrophobia to the whole impression.

He took in his surroundings cautiously.

Everything felt narrow and restricting in a space measuring no more than eight by six feet. There was a fluorescent light bulb on the ceiling, illuminating the dark corner with a toilet that had no seat cover, silently mocking his person. The opposite side contained an even poorer excuse for a sink. The walls were black in the corners from absorbing cigarette smoke. At least the cell had a window above the bunk, it was tiny with a heavy-gauge metal wire woven into the glass. He could even make out the wire-topped fences outside.

Šime studied the carved writings and graffiti which were written all over the place.

The paroles close to the lower bed spoke fine words of wisdom such as GO HANG, FUCK THE POLICE, TALK SHIT GET HIT et cetera. He found another interesting one near the sink, JEBAT CU TI MATER U PICKU JA was scrawled with a pen. He saw a lot of inappropriate doodles, mostly drawn on the other wall. More writings were found carved in the metal door using a knife. It spelled VATRENI and THE BLAZERS. He also noticed almost a dozen peace symbols and two swastika drawings.

Šime was just starting to relax when he heard a recorded voice through the speakers, making him jump suddenly. The voice announced that everyone from now had limited time to return to their cells.

When the door opened again, Šime was proud of himself for successfully restraining the flinching instinct.

After all, he needed to keep his head up, not to embarrass himself. If he plans on surviving this guy, he needs every ounce of energy he can muster to show off his confidence, because appearing tough in front of his celly is most vital.

The sound of the metal door sliding shut somehow chimed lauder that before. Every millisecond felt like a minute, and every second passed ever so slowly, as Šime took in the sight of the man than now stood before him.

Even with the loose jumpsuit swallowing his statue, Šime could make out well-defined muscles underneath the cloth. His celly was, unsurprisingly, a mean looking guy, emitting a fuming and apoplectic vibe. So apparently he also aspired to the scumbag bad-ass look. Along with the troublemaking bunch he'd seen earlier, this man could have just as easily crawled out from the same pit of hell.

"Šta buljiš, bagudino jedna?"

The two measured each other quietly in the confined space of the cell. Šime opened his mouth to say something in a similar tone, but thought better of it. It's not that he lost his wits you see, it's just the fact that this situation seemed really absurd to him.

"Come on dude, stop giving me that look," the exasperated man said.

"What look?"

Their staring contest stretched out. For the thousandth time that day, Šime felt immensely proud of his convincingly best poker-face.

In spite of the fact that he was screaming on the inside.

The twenty-six year old was pulled out from his trance when a snicker of laughter reverberated through the room.

"Relax, man," his cellmate said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm just messing with you."

Šime let out a quiet _Oh_ , standing almost plastered to the wall, feeling like an idiot.

"The name's Dejan Lovren, by the way." he hears him say.

The new prisoner forces a smile at that.

"Šime Vrsaljko," he returns, abstractedly running his hand through the curls of his hair.

"Uh, you... don't mind me being here?" Šime gestures at the lower bunk, his lips forming a stern line.

"No," Dejan says, "Gotta admit it's been too quiet since Mo Salah left... being isolated from regular folks sure can pack a punch. A man's gotta have someone to talk to, else he'll lose his mind in this cage."

"Mo Salah?"

"Mohamed Salah—former bucky of mine. He was deadass drunk that night, never handled liquor very well, ran over a couple of teenagers with the car. He got lucky, managed to serve only wino time, caught the train two weeks before you showed up." Dejan says, leaning his hand on the solid of the bunk. "And you, what got a guy like you involved with this shithole? Drugs? Homicide?"

"Let's see here... I got caught shoplifting once, went to jail for violation of public property, stole some bastard's car and that's basically what brought me into this mess. I guess I'm now somewhat of a vicious criminal myself."

At that, Dejan let out a benevolent laugh.

"You shittin' me? A guy can't even shit in peace without getting arrested cause the law sucks so bad. I'm not even gonna tell you what I'm here for, it's better if you don't know," Dejan gave him a wink.

"There is only one rule here you need to know. We're all convicts here, abominations of God, the biggest scum on the planet. Our only job is to steal, cheat, sell drugs, shank, fuck...the only catch is—don't get caught doing it."

"That's child's play, sounds easy enough."

"I wouldn't be so sure about it, give it a few more days and you'll see what I mean," says Dejan.

"Welcome to Altcourse, Šime."


	2. Chapter 2

The reverberating crescendo made by guards rattling their keys snapped Šime out of sleep, though he remained in the bed with his eyes closed.

He had been dreaming of the past, the reminiscences of another time had left a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

_No!_ _Not now..._ _Don't think about it now..._

He'd just gotten up, but felt like he had no energy to go through with this, wanting nothing more than for the day to end so he could climb back under the covers.

No such luck.

The daily schedule was non negotiable, no matter how badly he wanted to stay in the cell. There are no exceptions. If you don't get your lazy ass moving, then you get no food.

It was as simple as that.

Vrsaljko had to obedienty follow the schedule like everyone else in this prison.

The routine's aim was to prevent criminals from causing trouble and mayhem by having every minute of their day planned out in the fullest detail.

That didn't always work though.

Every once in a while, you could catch a major beef going on, people squabbling, or one of the local assholes picking fights with other inmates.

You know, the usual quality content of entertainment.

At least his celly had been kind enough to explain the outlines to him.

Šime followed Dejan with his eyes as the guy moved from one corner of the cell to another.

"For the last time, bagudino," said Dejan, "I am not nor have I ever been a mafia boss."

"But you just said that you worked with those bastards!" argued Šime.

"Yeah. Worked with them. Don't twist my words," Dejan said, rubbing his forehead, "I was nothing more than a cab driver at that time. They forced me to join. I didn't have any choice on the matter."

"You're lying!"

"No I'm not! Now listen up, cause I'm only going to say this once, so you better get your head out of your ass."

Šime sat back down on the bunk, crossing his arms.

"The Southmobs ain't no joke. You don't draw attention to yourself—you don't talk to them, don't provoke them, don't argue with them, don't fuck with them. In fact you shouldn't even look in their direction."

"I can try, but know that I won't make any promises."

Dejan made an abrupt stop in front of Šime, facepalming his forehead until it turned red.

Two words. Meal time.

The whole place was crawling with deeply disturbing faces, malicious and bloodthirsty. Not knowing who was in for what made social interactions a game of russian roulette.

There were many prisoners here who have committed horrid crimes. Prisoners who have murdered, raped or were accused of other acts of extreme violence. Šime was alarmed by their willingness to hurt others over the most trivial things.

For example, Dejan had told him that Fist Fucker—the piercing guy—once killed a man because his shit smelled so bad. That logic and reasoning were questionable at best, if they had any, that is. Violence was the only way they dealt with their issues and sorted out their differences.

Every day here was a battle for survival. Nothing was ever as it seemed in prisons. It's all about lies and deception, power and dominance.

And allies.

_Could he trust Dejan?_

How does he know he won't wake up one day with a knife in his back? Will he even survive that long?

A sense of urgency and brief panic washed over Šime, dulling the feeling of hopelessness. He quickly pushed the images away.

_Don't think about it yet_.

The nearby conversation was what brought him back to reality.

"Rocket, quit complaing. They treat us way better than we deserve anyway," spoke a short blond felon.

"Man I'd rather eat out Fist Fucker's ass. What even is this?" asked Rocket. He had giant bags under his eyes from what Šime suspected was clear lack of sleep.

"It looks like porridge to me."

"I'm not an idiot, Lukita. I know what porridge looks like."

Šime didn't feel all that hungry anymore.

He was still clutching the brown plastic food tray with both hands. The "food" doesn't really meet the edible standards, but kudos to the main cook Maggot Monty for at least providing everyone with semi-fresh bread. Since prison food is basically nothing more than processed crap with lots of seasoning, no wonder some inmates resolved to eat toilet paper to sate their appetites. It wasn't even unheard of people with particularly sensitive taste buds turning to Veganism. Maggot Monty once tried serving it to look aesthetically pleasing, but he wasn't really fooling anyone.

The sheer brutality of that was almost comical.

Out of nowhere, Šime felt a clammy hand close around his wrist. He looked up and was met with a pair of grey eyes. The convict who held Šime by the wrist, withdrew his hand only to take hold of his upper arm, pulling him closer.

"Hey guy, name's Roach, this here's my buddy Paul."

"Whassup, bro?" said Paul.

"Sup." Šime shrugged.

"Ya see that big homie over there?" Roach asked, pointing far ahead with his forefinger.

Vrsaljko followed it with his gaze, eyes landing on the man being pointed at. He did not like what he saw in the slightest.

That man had to be the most intimidating scumbag that ever made Šime feel insecure both on the inside and outside. The humongous inmate had a red headband on his head. His hideous face was covered in burn marks. Šime didn't want to know what happening to the poor soul thag did that to him.

"Yeah, I see him," Vrsaljko said warily, "Now quit touching me, man."

"Listen... if you got no allies here, guy" Roach intoned, patting him on the shoulder, "You might wanna avoid that Papa Doyle over there."

Šime felt genuinely scared. But he damn well wasn't about to show it.

"If you two think I'm gonna move out of my way to a couple of show outs, you've got another thing coming."

"Guy, you don't know shit. Papa Doyle is the strongest, biggest, meanest bastard you'd ever meet in this shithole. He's the biggest homie of us the Southmobs, I ain't joking. He eats fish like you for breakfast, doesn't share much though."

Šime wretched his arm away, barely avoiding dropping the tray. "I don't give a single fuck about you or your big homie! There are plenty of other fish in the tank and this one doesn't take no shit."

At that, Roach roughly took hold of both Šime's wrists, turning them upwards and making the porridge from the tray smear his jumpsuit.

Paul started pushing against his chest, making sneering and taunting noises.

Behind Paul, Šime spotted Lukita's slight frame squeezing through the sea of now slowly gathering people.The small man pulled at Paul's sleeve, drawing him away from Šime.

"Do all scumbag Mobs love crossing the line like you two? Come on, give the guy a break." he said in a warning tone.

"Stay out of this Lukita!" yelled Paul, "You Blazers got no business here!"

Lukita was soon joined by an enraged Mario. "I'm tired of shitheads like you always starting drama. Interrupt my meal again andI’ll beat the breaks off you!" he roared.

"You gonna make us angry, guy," added Roach, "Real angry and..."

Šime smashed the tray on the floor. "Back up off or it's on."

This exchange of words had earned them an even bigger audience. Loud cheering and chanting soon dominated the room.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

"Look over here, boys! The drama's starting again!"

"I think you misunderstood me, punk," Roach stated darkly, his livid face only inches away from Vrsaljko's. "I tried bein' friendly, tried to offer some advice... In your position you get to refuse 'em! So I'll show you what it me—!"

Šime punched Roach right on the spot.

All hell broke loose.

Paul threw a fist at Mario, but received the same kind of treatment only seconds after. Some other inmates decided to join in on the fun, punching and kicking for the thrill of it.

Šime found his face being knocked sideways by an intense blow. He hit the table and fell on the floor face down, lip heavily bleeding and aching from the viciousness of the punch.

Then they were on him.

He took a sharp kick in the ribs and felt another one land on his side. With a little luck, he caught Paul with a surprise kick in the stomach, quickly manoeuvring out of reach.

He darted to the side to avoid Roach's sudden lunge, almost slipping on the spilled porridge. His senses were swimming, lip still bleeding and adrenaline pumping through his veins. The only thing keeping him grounded was the dull ache of the hits he received.

Before he got a chance to acknowledge what was happening, there were hands encircling his throat, restricting his airway.  
The hands belong to no other than Papa Doyle himself.

Šime felt the veil of panic drop as his air was cut off.

He fought hard to break free, but the calloused hands around his throat were unyielding. He kicked uselessly against Papa Doyle, frantically trying to escape the stranglehold.

_To much..._

_It was to much._

His senses were working on overdrive, the desperate clawing at his attacker's arm becoming more futile by the second.

_He couldn't handle it anymore..._

He needed to breathe.

For a long moment, he was aware of everything happening before him, all the shapes became sharper, as was the yelling of the guards and loud cheering mixed with the ringing in his ears.

Then the black spots started dancing along his peripheral vision.

He closed his eyes...

Just when he made a truce with his fate, ready to let go and surrender, the stranglehold withdrew.

_No..._

_Someone forced it to fall back._

Šime took the most satisfying breath he ever drew in his life. The air filling his lungs felt like being born for a second time. It was almost a surreal experience. He slid along the wall until he hit the ground, still gulping down air.

A second round of fighting that broke out after the one serving as an appetizer was now almost broken down by the guards.

When he looked up, his eyes were met with Dejan's worried ones.

_Wait._

Dejan was worried? That didn't sound right.

"You shittin' me, Šime?" Dejan asked, his face full of disappointment.

Fatigue suddenly washed over Vrsaljko. He felt exhausted. A quiet _huh_ was the only sound he could muster.

“Didn’t I warn you? His celly murmured, offering a hand to help him to his feet. Šime's legs were wobbly after the initial adrenaline rush. He was therefore forced to lean on the taller man for support.

Everything hurt like hell.

"What were you thinking? That guy's the leader of the Southmobs, you idiot," Dejan uttered, "Don't ever think about fucking with him again, cause If you fuck with him, you'll have to fuck with all of them."

Šime stared.

He must have looked like a total mess. his orange jumpsuit was still smeared with porridge. The meal had obviously never looked appetizing, but this was beyond gross. He even found some of it in the curls of his hair. Of course Dejan was the one who pointed it out to him, wasting no time to laugh.

"You got lucky this time, next one may not end so well, cause when they see you again, they'll surely beat the breaks off you."

Šime didn't have enough strenght to argue with him.

Like he'd said before, the schedule didn't always work sufficiently. Vrsaljko was excused that day since he had to to spend it in the Healthcare Centre, along with the other beaten up prisoners.

After initially gauging his new celly, Dejan didn't honestly think much of him. They were cool and all, but the former mobster didn't really have it in him to care. The guy gave off the cell rat kind of vibe and Dejan didn't pay much attention to Šime's show of bravado yesterday.

Vrsaljko was probaly just fake kicking it.

When there's real trouble going on, it's a battle of fists and wits, and you can't win no battles without guts.

His new bucky did have guts, he'd give him that. The guy was as bold as he was foolish. More wits than brains, nevertheless.

Dejan had been in prison for long enough to recognise prowess when he sees it. He'd been in many knockdown fights, left many bodies bleeding to death. He dealt with all kinds of gangsters while he was still involved with the mafia. The thugs, the bad boys—he knew how to take care of them all.

Yes, he'd really seen it, been through more trouble than he asked for. Dejan had a real reputation. He wasn't scared of nobody.

As far as he knew it, fesh meat didn't ever mess with the big homies. And Papa Doyle was so much more than just that.

He was a real boogeyman, infamous within and beyond the fences surrounding this prison. He was a brute who made grown men cry for their mothers on regular basis. That man was the real deal. A real legend amongst felon motherfuckers. He’s the one that calls the shots for his deck.There were usually only two ways to deal with his kind of bunch: fight them and get beat up or just get beat up.

But not when these guys were involved.

The boys were here right on time. They even brought a few pruno shots, the best prison made alcohol there is. It wasn't rakija, but it sure could do the trick. One cup turned into two cups, and everyone was drunk.

The inmates were talking nonsense and laughing like crazy.

"Why do you keep calling Šime a pest?" Lukita asked Dejan.

"Cause he is a pest. He's such a pain in the ass sometimes."

"Hey!" Šime whined indignantly.

"Prison nicknames sure are a funny thing, punk. Besides, it beats being called a bitch." added Mario.

Lukita barely managed to stifled a laugh.

"And here I thought you were starting to like me," joked Šime, "I mean, you put your own ass in danger just to save mine, knowing full how much that could've cost you."

"Really? You thought I was the one who saved you?"

"Weren't you?" Šime could already feel the strong alcohol taking over his tongue.

"Oh I wasn't the one," said Dejan, "That was our Mr. No Good here—the one and only."

"We don't call him Super Mario for nothing, you know." Lukita said, landing a playful punch on Mario's upper arm.

"Papa Doyle may be a big guy, but that dome shot from Super Mario sure knocked him down like a bitch."

"What was your beef with those punks, anyway?" Dejan asked him.

"I don't know and I truly don't give a fuck."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to this chapter. It has one of the first ideas I had in mind before deciding to write this fanfic. Also, poor Šime.

The cellblocks were almost never peaceful, Šime had learned that soon enough.

He was convinced that the shrieking and whimpering coming from their lovely block was something he would never grow accustomed to. The constant yelling, swearing, and hollering of their neighbours were just too loud to ignore. Šime could comprehend now why Rocket never got any sleep whatsoever.

With the lockdown blurring his already foggy memory, he found it hard to separate the reality from the haze.

_It had to have happened yesterday._

_... Or was it two days ago?_ Hell if he remembered.

That was the last time he held his precious medal in both hands. It was the only valuable possession he had left, the last thing worth protecting. Sometimes, when his cell was empty or when Dejan had fallen asleep, he would take it out and hold it tightly in his hand. He would clutch the medal as one would cling for dear life.

_... And now it was gone._

Šime had searched the entire cell, he'd searched through every corner of the room; he even asked his celly if he'd seen it.

"Your football medal?" Dejan raised an eyebrow. "You shitin' me, Šime?"

Vrsaljko gave him an inquiring look. "Well? Did you see it or didn't you?"

"I have no clue. You shouldn't have brought it in here in the first place."

The fury and frustratio which he carried throughout the day weren't helping. The anger was boiling inside, ready to erupt. A voice inside Šime's head reminded him that it wasn't the right time, but he was too far gone to care.

"Who then?"

"Who what, Šime?"

Vrsaljko slammed both fists on the metal of the bunk. "Who else could have taken it, if not you!?" he yelled in outrage.

"Look...I know nothing about your stupid medal. Maybe the guard took it during the shakedown," Dejan said, placing his hands palms-first in a calming matter, "But, since it means so much to you...I might know I guy who could be of some use."

Šime found that hard to believe. He restrained himself from punching the bunk once more, mainly because of the pain that shot out through his arm. He calmed down a bit, waiting for Dejan to continue.

"His name's Charlie. He cells with Domo—the blond guy—if you remember. It's not too many blocks from here. Anything you need, he's the guy who can get it for you."

"I don't really see how that's relevant." Šime frowned.

"Of couse it's relevant, bagudino jedna. We're the Blazers," Dejan snarled, "Everything that happens here means business for us. Anything looking suspicious should be checked out as soon as possible. Charlie has connections, he know people around the prison, people beyond the fences even. He has lots of acquaintances."

"That guy couldn't give a fuck about me even if you used your mobster intimidation to force him to. And you're sure he'll help me out?" Šime was quite doubtful, "Just like that, huh?"

Dejan grinned. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "There ain't nothing free in this hellhole and you know it just as much as I do."

Šime was aware that Charlie and Dejan were in the same gang, but even if Dejan managed to somehow convince Charlie to help out...Every service still had its price. And what could a guy like Charlie possibly want from him?

"Come on, Šime, use that fucking brain of yours. I know you have it in you."

Vrsaljko pondered, but nothing really came to mind.

Dejan regarded him in silence for a few moments. He was pensive, his gaze wandering to the small window, he then spoke softly. "We're family, you know."

"What?"

"Us. The Blazers," he gestured vaguely, "Don't you get it, Šime?"

Vrsaljko shook his head, vexed and irritated.

"There is no him, as you've put it. There's only us. It's not just Charlie who runs this place, it's the team. And we're all about the contraband. If there's something you want, you'll have to join in."

Šime sat on his lower bunk; one hand serving as support for his recumbent chin, the other playing with the curls of his hair. He looked down at his ugly prison shoes.

One thing was sure, he didn't want to get involved. Gangs like the Southmobs aren't supposed to be messed around with, and the Blazers were no exception to that rule. They were all that, and so much more. Only a fool would seek problems with such a dangerous bunch.

"Couldn't you—"

"No," Dejan answered bluntly, "You're not getting anything for free. I thought we've already established that."

Šime contemptuously eyed the watch hanging from the opposite wall. He was reconsidering. Perhaps he was looking at the situation from a completely wrong angle. This wasn't about whether he liked it or not. This was about preservation, about pulling it through.

He needed allies.

He needed people at his side if he wished to make it out of here in one piece. And every day he continued the countdown, he anticipated the moment of his release. Šime yearned for freedom. He waited for the time when he will finally step out of this cage, fantasizing how it would feel to be a free man once again.

He didn't like this place in the slightest. He didn't want Lukita. He didn't want Super Mario. And he most certainly didn't want Dejan.

And yet... He couldn't help but glance back at the other man.

The same man who took care of him as if there was a lifelong friendship binding them together, and not the crimes which brought them here.

He hardly dared to play around with such dangerous thoughts, but... Dejan was also kinda hot. Not that Šime would ever admit it to him.

Those gentle hands helping him to get up, those hands holding him tightly, never letting go. For the first time since he came into this prison, Šime felt protected.

_He felt safe._

Like he knew, somewhere deep down, that everything will turn out alright.

_No..._

What was he thinking?

Inmates couldn't be relied upon. That man—that mobster—couldn't possibly be trusted. It was all just a game for Dejan.

It had to be.

He didn't watch out for Šime because he genuinely cared for him. He did it to assert his dominance amongst other inmates, to show off his power and influence.

_Yes..._

That must have been it.

What if Dejan was the one who stole his medal? Did he plan to sell so he could get a hold of some money? It had to be a scam of some sort.

_It was just a game._

A game of danger, lies, secret agendas, and deceits. Šime wasn't stupid, he wasn't an idiot.

And neither was Dejan.

He noticed the way his celly looked at others. He paid close attention to the looks he himself received. Dejan had a knack for reading people, gauging their strengths and weaknesses. A thing that made it possible to break even the most potent of liars. He could get under your skin, figure you out with just one look from those intense, piercing eyes.

Šime often got lost in them, in his eyes. The two orbs were as captivating as a fathomless void, luring him, pulling him in.

He thought he'd fallen for those eyes.

"Come here for a moment, will you?" Dejan gestured for him out of the blue.

Šime wasn't sure what this was about, but he got up anyway without sparing it a second thought. He found his feet moving ever so slowly towards their goal. One painful step after another.

When they were close enough, Dejan took hold of Šime's right hand, turning it over so he could examine it. Despite the peculiarity of the situation, Šime remained motionless, unresisting.

"I didn't know you were into tattoos," Dejan said, regarding Šime's outstretched arm with renewed interest, "Love getting buzzed, huh?"

He traced every line with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers gently grazing every delicate curve. The consistent touch made Šime's skin burn, but not in an unpleasant way. The feeling was almost unbearable, yet he fought the instinctual urge to pull away.

"Why does that matter?" Šime all but whispered, "Why do you act like you care?"

Dejan stilled, letting Šime's arm to fall back against his side. Neither of them conversed for the moment.

When Dejan's eyes found his own, he spoke in an almost thoughtful way, as if he considered saying something, but thought better of it.

"Believe it or not, I can appreciate fine art when I see it." He murmured in a hushed tone, gaze still all-consuming. "I do, in fact, have a few tattoos of my own."

"Oh?" Šime thought that was quite fitting, it just seemed right.

Time stopped. Seconds stretched.

Their bodies were still close, close enough to touch, but never quite making contact. Šime continued to hold perfectly still, their faces mere inches apart.

"Would you... like to see them?" Dejan requested almost tentatively. He felt the soft breath of the other against his skin.

He wanted to touch.

Wanted to feel the other's body against his own.

Wanted to taste those tender lips. The lips lulling him into a serene trance with their honeyed words.

The door opened, pulling the duo from their hypnotic state. The spell was broken, like nothing had happened between them.

Dejan started walking away, then turned once more towards Šime.

"Don't you ever leave your cell without me again."

"Don't worry," Šime snorted. "I've learned my lesson."

That's the first time they were let out after the lockdown. Dejan stepped out first, Šime followed close behind him. They caught the sight of two guards standing before an empty cell. It was another standard shakedown in the process.

Next to them, Iva Olivari, the porter lady, was mopping the dried blood stains off the floor. She and the correctional officer spoke briefly, then parted ways. Iva immersed the rag into the foul water, then filtered it again. She resumed to methodically swipe the soiled ground.

"Hi, Iva." Dejan greeted her, looking down at what she was doing. "Don't tell me, Chadwick tried to skewer the Super Cop again. This would be, like, his third attempt or something."

"Oh he skewered him, alright. Although, I would appreciate if he didn't do it quite as often. My hands are already full as it is."

_Just a normal occurrence, huh? Nothing to see here, then._

They were striding down the following block when he noticed four inmates pointing at them from the side. Only one of the bunch had a familiar face—the Roach bastard. His eyes were burning with anger, figuratively throwing daggers at the duo. There was a bandage tightly securing his broken nose. It looked like it had bled some more, judging by the drops of red on the bandage.

Šime glared back at them, instinctively shuffling closer to Dejan's side.

"They got a bad rep, even among these low lives." said a voice Šime was more than acquainted with.

Super Mario greeted the duo with a smug expression plastered across his face, he was leaning against Lukita's smaller frame. There was Domo, indistinctly muttering something while being all but dragged towards them by another man. Rocket was there as well, hitting his head against a wall.

"What you did back there was real bogus, Suba." Lukita mumbled.

"Yet my reputation stays intact. Domo should take note."

"That wasn't a competition, stop acting so high and mighty. I'm gonna puke."

Lukita moved Mario's hand, stepping in between Suba and Domo. "Alright, break it up you two."

"You've heard the man, lovebirds," added Rocket, "Leave the beef for the bedroom. We have a more important subject ahead of us."

Everyone turned their gazes over to Šime. Lukita approached him with a bright smile on his face. Šime was taken aback by it, as such friendliness was unbecoming of a notorious gang leader. He offered him a hand, Šime shook it with confidence.

"Congrats on making it out alive," Lukita said, "You sure handed those Southmobs a good beatdown."

"Thanks. I'm a good fighter, always have been."

"You're cool, curly guy, those bastards had it coming." Domo's voice could be heard from the side. "They talk tough, but most of them ain't nothing, I tell you..."

"Now that you mention it... We really could use a fist or two..." Lukita resumed.

"You're inviting me to join?" Šime didn't know it was possible to become a member of the gang so easily. It seemed too easy, in fact.

"We'll have you if you're interested."

"Yeah, he ain't a nobody, he ain't gonna stay a lamer for long, anyways."

"Besides, he's got a new road dog who ain't gonna let nothing happen to him. Isn't that right, D.L.?" Super Mario remarked.

"You got that right, Mr. No Good." Dejan replayed.

Mario titled his head to Vrsaljko. "Listen, Šime. I need to holler at you, are you free?"

"Sure, I'm listening."

"Not here, big guy. The cellblock is all ears, better take a walk with me."

They had twenty minutes left before the time for telephone calls was over. It was as many as they will ever get. Šime was genuinely curious to what he had to say. Mario led him past a few blocks until they found a more private spot. He glanced around one final time to make sure the coast was clear.

"Look... I know you're a cool guy and all... and I can respect that."

Šime listened to him warily. He thought he knew where this was going.

"You've got some guts. How you handled those Southmobs... that was the shit. As far as the others are concerned, you can ride with our set. But..."

_... And there it goes._

That's more like the Mario he knew. "If you, for whatever reason, decide to do something stupid like snitching us, or stepping down from a fight... and if you ever think about betraying Lukita, you'll have me to deal with."

Mario eyed him with open distrust. He was trying so hard to seem indifferent, and Šime understood.

"Did you get all that?"

A pang of doubt seized him. "Why would I betray Lukita?"

"What?"

Mario gave him one of his infamous bewildering looks. "I didn't say anything about Lukita..."

"Um, afraid to tell you this, but you just did. You said 'and if you ever think about betraying Lukita'."

"I don't know what you're saying man," Mario waved his hand dismissively, "Come on, stop shitting with me."

"Mario, I'm sick of all this playing around, I don't care what kind of relationship problems you're having—"

Mario's eyes widened momentarily. Looks like he hit a sore spot there.

_Wait... could it be?_

The twitch of Mario's head told a lot about his discomfort, he clearly changed his mind about wanting to have this conversation.

_Oh._

Šime's eyes went wide as the realization hit him.

He put a hesitant hand on Mario's shoulder, slowly, as if he were afraid to startle him. "You love him, don't you?"

Mario remained quiet. The flickering in his eyes spoke words left unspoken.

Mr. No Good turned abruptly away from him, starting to walk the opposite way.

"Wait, Mario," Šime tried to reason with him, "I'm sorry, please just—"

Mario bolted, and Šime sprinted after him.It seemed futile, but Šime still called out to him. He still followed.

_You really are an idiot, Šime._

Mario was fast, too fast for his worn out legs. Šime couldn't keep up with him any longer. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

It happened fast. No warning whatsoever.

Someone's hand grabbed him from behind, and he was pulled backwards. Šime staggered a few steps, before hitting the floor.

The hands were on him again. Three against one could hardly be considered a fair fight.

Šime struggled. He fought them with everything he had. No matter how hard he tried, he was still no match for the assailants.

The hits kept landing on him mercilessly, one punch turning into another.

He wanted to shout, but before he managed to even utter a word, there was a hand clamping down on his mouth, successfully muffling any sound that tried to escape.

Panicking wouldn't do him any good. He fought to stay focused.

And just like that, he was beaten. Šime had no strength left, he could only allow them to do as they pleased.

Rough fingers took hold of his chin, forcibly tilting his head, compelling him to look up.

His vision was red. The only distinguishable feature was the headband covering the forehead of a scarred face.

Papa Doyle. Wasn't that surprising?

He wasn't as bad as the others said. He was way worse. The scumbag was a true outlaw. He held no regard for rules, had no code of honour to follow. There's no telling what the brute was capable of.

"You frightened, punk?" the man tittered at him.

"That's right, you should be. This is my prison. My rules. My bitches. And I'm the one who calls all the shots."

"Yeah, I'd cover my ass if I were you, punk. You'd be surprised at what Boss could come up with." Paul chuckled.

"Now, listen up, you little fuck," Papa Doyle snarled, "D.L. has been a pain in my ass for long enough. I grew tired of him long before you set foot in this prison..."

Blood was the only thing Šime could think about. He managed to heave in a breath. "Fuck you." he spoke hoarsely.

He wanted to fight them. Wanted to give them the same kind of treatment.

"You got the jaunt, Paul?"

Paul handed him something sharp. It was...a toothbrush. Papa Doyle placed the improvised stiletto in Šime's opened palm, then clasped a hand around his, closing Šime's clammy fingers around the stiletto.

He knew now what they wanted from him.

"I won't." Šime uttered sternly, like he hadn't just broken a breath.

"You will."

Šime spat at him. The Southmob wiped the spit off of his face, then stared back at Šime, feeling a rush of consternation. He backslashed him hard across the face, whipping his head to the side.

"If you don't take care of D.L by the end of the week, you'll find yourself experiencing the worst kind of unpleasantness, and that's a promise." He let his words sink in, holding Šime viciously by the chin.

_No..._

He could never do that to Dejan.

He just couldn't...

Suddenly, Papa Doyle let go of him, then stepped past him. Šime dropped down on the floor, panting and groaning.

Paul took one more glance at the man lying prone at his feet. Just in case Šime hadn't experienced a harsh enough beating, he landed another kick aimed at the stomach. Just to be sure.

Šime doubled over, he grunted in pain as the air was driven away from his lungs.

_No..._

_Please..._

As Paul walked away, Šime felt no relief. The terror at what was to come only intensified.

_Oh God._

His body shuddered just at the thought of it. He didn't want to acknowledge what was happening.

_Anything but that..._

They... wanted him to kill Dejan with a sharpened toothbrush.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite Šime's previous assurance, It dawned on him that the cellblocks weren't the most brutal of prison battlegrounds so far. The yard was which held the particular honour. A perfect place for weaknesses to be exploited, a place for the inexperienced to be taken advantage of. This was where the real battles for survival took place.

The blazing Sun showed the prisoners no mercy; heating the stony asphalt until he felt the consistent burn through the soles of his footwear.

Šime Vrsaljko was a dead man.

He had no future to look forward to. No present to live through. No past to come back to.

His tired gaze wandered over the barb-wired fence, standing tall and mocking. He had a lot to think about.

What to do? How to proceed?

If the burning Sun didn't kill him, his indecisiveness would surely do the trick.

The heat was getting to his head, he was swaying from side to side. His clothes were all sticky, making his freshly bandaged wounds itch. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, wishing he could just walk around shirtless.

To say that he was exhausted would be an understatement, so weary and drained as he was. He gulped, felt the tears prick the corners of his eyes.

_"I grew tired of him..."_

Doyle's menacing voice echoed in his head, keeping him in a state of constant dread. It was a new kind of torture, he had learned.

_A dead man..._

He couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't let it drag him down, all beat up and barely standing.

Everything was on fire: the heights, the soil, the bodies and gist. His core and crux were set ablaze, roaring as the internal flames licked at his inner wounds.

_He couldn't, he wouldn't..._

"Not too fond of heat, I take it?"

Šime startled. He lifted his head, bringing into focus the situation beforehand. He hummed in agreement, subtly avoiding Dejan's gaze.

"Why so jumpy?" Dejan punched his shoulder playfully, unintentionally putting pressure on a sore spot which made Šime hiss in discomfort.

"I didn't scare you too bad, did I?" he joked, bringing a hand up to ruffle Šime's black curls.

Vrsaljko was about to push it away, but then noticed that the two weren't alone anymore. The whole gang was here, radiating in its full strength and glory.

The Blazers surrounded them, enclosing the duo in a perfect circle. So many faces, old and new, standing strong and mighty.

All eyes were on them. He was at the center of attention.

"Oh man, oh man! Check who we got here." Domo gestured for the others.

"Is that a new gang banger I smell?"

"You're one of us now, bro. Don't mind D.L."

Rocket patted him lightly on the back. "He has a soft spot for guys with curly hair. It can't be helped."

Šime gave a hesitant nod, unsure what to make of this. He didn't really mind Dejan, no. His celly and he had grown accustomed to each other rather quickly. Šime would even say he became fond of the man.

Mr. No Good was holding himself straight, head up high, not giving a damn. "What a perfect day for chin checks." he noted.

"Fuck this prison, we should've all just followed Bum Bum Kale's example and escaped while we still had our chance."

"And do what? Become wanted fugitives?" Suba snorted, "I'd rather lick toilets."

"Dude's so lucky he got off the hook. I mean, how the fuck did that fucker made it look so easy? Who the fuck escapes like that?"

"I'll tell you who," Rocket stated, smirking with mischief. "Why it is our captain, the one and only." He got behind their notorious gang leader, delivering a gentle smack on his backside.

"For God's sake, Rocket," Lukita groaned, his face turning red from embarrassment. The short prisoner put his hands protectively over his backside, just in case Rocket's hands decided to wander off again.

"Don't do it in public, we've talked about this."

"I don't give a single fuck about what these bitches think, I told you."

"Keep your hands to yourself while were're in the yard, that's all I asked of you."

"Oh for the love of—"

"You two are gross. I think I'm going to be sick." Mario's face grimaced in disgust. He started imitating vile gagging sounds in jest.

"Every fuckin' time, I swear. Every single fucking time. Y'all do everything to ruin my day."

Lukita cleared his throat The chatty gang grew quiet instantly. "So tell me, Šime, how does it feel to be a part of Vatreni?"

Šime furrowed a brow, he mused for a short moment, licking his dry lips. "It feels lit, man. You guys are on fire."

"Yeah, baby, the heat's got nothin' on us!" Domo yelled at the top of his lungs.

"These are our grounds, our domains. We make the rules. Those who are bothered, be damned!"

"If you play with fire, your dick gets burned. Don't ever forget that." Mario added.

"The Sun is roasting, our eyeballs are boiling, but nothing burns brighter than this fierce squad right here. We've caught the blaze and we're striving!" another man declared with passion.

"D.L. told us where your interests lie." Lukita went on, "And boy, do we have just the kind of job for you."

He heard a faint rustling sound, the gang parted for one of them to pass through.

And there, just as Dejan had promised, they were approached by a man who may have been Šime's only link in getting back what belonged to him.

"Charlie, this is your man." Šime was pushed forward towards him.

Charlie observed him from head to toe, he straightened his back, then nodded in approvement.

"There's no time like the present to start spitting fire, I guess. And let me tell you, man, you're an oven full of flames." Lukita said.

"Ola is already in place. Dare has us covered. All's looking good." Charlie spoke, then gestured for Šime to follow him.

"Come along, there's no time to spare."

"Don't forget to cover your asses on the way back. We don't need any more trouble, dammit." Dejan swore.

"And keep away from the rat poison!"

"He already knows that, Domo," Suba sighted, "He ain't stupid."

"Good luck, bro. Burn them all into crisps!"

Šime snorted at that. He could hardly consider himself lucky—at least not in the only way that mattered.

_No..._

He took one final glance at Dejan, hoping this wouldn't be the last he saw of him.  
Šime shuddered. His chest tightened at the mere thought of it.

He was moving, concentrating on putting one foot after another, dragging his bruised body to where it was needed.

He swore, cursing the assurance and self-confidence that had him thinking this was going to be even remotely easy.

"Now remember, it's up to Dare and Ola to worry about the details, you just do what they tell you to do. No questions asked."

After a few minutes of sneaking around and avoiding the CO, the two of them came to a halt.

"Here we go." Charlie murmured more to himself. Vrsaljko stared in dismay at the unlocked door leading to the supply room.

_Just how... never mind._

He didn't even want to know. It was probably for the best if he didn't. Šime may have had no voice in this matter, but he damn as well had no obligations to like it.

They found Ola in the back of the room, he was crouching behind a stack of food... putting some biscuits in his jumpsuit through the collar opening.

Well, there were worse ways to do this, he supposed.

Contraband got smuggled around here in the most despicable of methods, and quite frequently indeed. It seemed like the Blazers were running a real business in here.

"Hey, new guy. You like Domaćicas, don't you?" Ola snickered. "Not these ones you don't."

"No. Put those things back where they came from or so help me."

"Hold up. Just lemme take care of this. Charlie fall back, man."

"Never mind, I'll help you." Charlie grunted.

"Šime, you stay right here. I'm gonna send Dare to explain how shit works."

They left just like that.

Šime didn't exactly regret his decision, but he had to admit that being alone in a strange prison storage room made him feel the slightest bit of unease. He supposed he'll have to get used to it.

Minutes stretched.

Šime took his time to observe the storage room. He wasn't usually the one to carelessly touch things, but curiosity got the better of him this time.

He opened a yellow package of... Domaćica? Is that how Ola had called it? They were biscuits with chocolate. Šime started salivating at the sight.

Actual food, and chocolate at that. He put one biscuit in his mouth.

"Oh, I wouldn't eat that if I were you."

Šime paused, lazily regarding Dare. His thoughts were still hazy and hard to grasp since the other day. He couldn't bring himself to grasp the reason why he shouldn't, instead choosing to shrug his shoulders and continue munching.

"These packages are there since 2009. Chadwick usually uses them to kill dogs... but if you have some sort of a weird suicide fetish, don't let me stop you."

Šime had never spat anything faster than this Domaćica biscuit. He coughed violently, wiped his tongue with both sleeves, then dried his salivated mouth with the collar of his orange onesie.

"A wise choice." Dare approved, there was a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"So, uh, this is what you Blazers do here? You smuggle food. The one for eating, I mean."

"Yes, only the edible kind. I guess you can say that our stomach's are always in our backs. That Domaćica stack is an exception, though. We don't ever talk about that."

_Fair enough._

"Hey y'all, what'd I miss?" another inmate joined in.

"Sup, Chicken?" Dare greeted him. "Nothin' much, we were just kickin' it."

"Really, man? Heard you said you were too old for this shit, what changed your mind?"

Dare shrugged. "I guess I just missed kickin' it with the boys once in a while. Just like in the old days, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Listen, Dare.." Chicken massaged his temple, shaking his head in frustration. "I can't work like this, man. That shit's fuckin' crazy. One of the Southmobs wanted to dip in the kool aid, I think he might have overheard us."

"Don't tell me you slipped. You know I'm putting my ass on the line here, It is in Charlie's best interest that we don't mess any of this up."

"I didn't slip. The bastard only tried to knock me off my square, that's all."

"The fucker would be better off doing the dutch."

"Yeah, if Mr. No Good was here, he would have stabbed him tree knee deep."

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm serious. We should've given the fella a proper chin check."

Dare shook his head. "I got jigs while your sorry ass makes the shank. Got it."

Chicken just grinned at him. "I'll take care of it, you know I always do."

The rest of the day passed in a blur. From what Dare had told him, it didn't seem all that hard. Šime could do that, no problem.

Only now _that_ wasn't the problem. It was _this_.

Sure, he wasn't going to kill Dejan. But what will he do? What _can_ he do?

The cell was dark.

He felt like he hadn't fully acknowledged the fear that's been eating his core, slowly making it's way through his insides, vile and sickening.

He could feel its consistance in the corners of his mind, begging to be acknowledged.

Perhaps it was just a delusion; the sleep deprived fraction of his mind making an effort to play tricks on him. His thoughts were loose and hard to grasp.

And this was him: trashing in denial, drowning in anguish and self pity, gritting his teeth and biting into own flesh to suppress the sobs of despair.

Only this time there was no feel of the familiar round shape he used for consolation. He instead clutched an object of demise; an item throwing him further into madness.

His chest tightened.

Šime pressed his thumb against the razor-sharp point of the stiletto to the point of almost drawing blood.

_Anything but that..._

He shed tears in the darkest hour of the night, questioning his own sanity.

_No..._

Four dark walls holding him captive. The walls surrounding his very essence, forming a cell that was more than a physical constriction, preying upon both his body and mind. He was driven into a dead end, trapped and helpless.

There was no escape.

His body might have been bruised, but the physical pain paled in comparison to the ache constricting his agitated heart.

_Stop thinking about it._

He tossed restlessly, the bunk creaked beneath his weight. He buried his face into the tear soaked pillow to muffle a desperate scream of frustration.

_Anything but that..._

It was as cruel as it was selfish, Šime knew. He tightened the hold until his knuckles turned white.

Four dark walls.

_He couldn't do it..._

Šime turned his head on the pillow, manoeuvring it so he could peek through the narrow crack between the wall and the bunk. He regarded Dejan's sleeping form in torturous silence.

He wished for the malevolent voices in his head to quiet down so he could finally rest. The awareness of solitude was driving him mad; he felt so alone, so isolated.

And Dejan was right there, close enough to touch, lying prone and vulnerable.

No matter how dangerous the former mobster though himself to be, at the end of the day, he was just as mortal as the other men.

It would be easy to reach out, to take courage and finish the job.

_And why not?_

With Dejan lying there utterly defenseless at his mercy, he surely wouldn't be able to stop him.

So why didn't he do it?

Why not end this suffering and be done with it?

Šime felt power growing inside him, heart beating, adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was strange, not being able to grasp the reason behind it. He could not recall a time when he felt this mighty. So great and powerful.

It was wrong, so very wrong, and downright cruel. Šime kept his eyes tightly shut, bringing his free hand up against his mouth, biting his bruised knuckles.

He never felt less of a man than he did now.

"Hey... bro, you awake?"

Šime's body jerked violently, his heart missed a beat.

He was in some deep shit.

Dejan was peering at him, all drowsy and puzzled, rubbing his eyes.

Now that he'd thought about it... maybe he should have eaten more of those old Domaćica biscuits. It would have been a pretty decent way to go.

_Dammit_.

If Dejan caught him with this, he was sure death would have been the least of his worries. He would be begging for it long before the former mobster was done with him. Šime gulped, closed his eyes, the dreadful images still danced in the darkness. It was too late for regrets now, all he could do was play along.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

Dejan still stared at him through the darkness. "Wait. Are you crying?"

"... No."

"Come on dude, you're—"

"Fuck off, just leave me alone!"

Šime held his breath, maybe he'd taken it a bit too far. He was losing it.

Dejan studied him, swore under his breath, and said one of the last things Šime expected to hear from his mouth.

"Come 'ere."

Yep. He definitely lost it. "Um... what? Sorry, it just sounded like you told me to—"

"I did."

"Wait, so you seriously said—"

"Yeah, you heard me."

"I don't understand what you're saying. Is this some kind of a joke?"

Šime couldn't believe he was doing this. After a few moments of hesitation, he found himself lying next to Dejan, trying to get comfortable despite the obvious lack of space between the two.

The other man smelled nice. Šime made a mental note to ask which cologne he was using.

The expanse of the other's chest pressed against his side. This bed clearly wasn't meant for two people, judging by the discomfort they were currently in.

"Stop squirming, you're pushing me against the wall."

"Hey, don't blame this on me, it was your idea."

"Yeah but you don't have to be a dick about it. Stop moving around so much."

Šime's heart was palpitating, he could hear loud thumping in his ears, frantic and fast. He prayed to God that Dejan didn't hear it as well.

"This is so weird, dude."

"Well, it's better then listening to your ugly sobbing, that's for sure. I just wanna get some fucking sleep around here. Speaking of which, what got you so knocked off your square? Had a nightmare, eh?"

"No fucking way. I'm not going to talk to you about this, forget it." Šime said in disbelief, wishing Dejan would just drop the it already.

"Why? Is it that embarrassing? Alright, you don't have to tell me. Don't trip about it."

"Seriously, why would you even give a fuck about it?"

"I already told you, don't you remember?"

No, he did not remember. What was Dejan playing at here?

"If there's anything I've learned from my life with the mafia, it's that we were more than just acquaintances with common interests. I know it's hard to explain, but I felt like there was something far greater holding us together, even if I hadn't come to them on my own terms in the first place. That kind of life just sorta sucks you in."

"No, I don't think I understand what you mean. Not really."

Dejan sighted. "What I'm trying to say is that we're more than what the world makes us think we are. And since you decided to join us, I guess you're a part of that something as well."

"You're full of surprises, man. You didn't really strike me as the intellectual type."

Dejan chuckled. "I mean, if we're already stuck in this together, we might as well watch each other's backs."

Šime nodded, smiling feebly. "And I'm in your bed why again?"

"Oh, shut up."

"Hey, it's cool. I'm not judging you or anything."

"Šime, you have two options. Either stop with this bullshit or you'll be spending the rest of the night on the floor."

Šime murmured something incomprehensible, tossing and turning until he found a more comfortable sleeping position.

A veil of silence wrapped around them, thick and firm, so quiet you could hear a penny drop.  
Šime started dozing off, the steady rise and fall of Dejan's chest lulling him to sleep.

Dejan gently nudged his shoulder. "Look at me, Šime."

He didn't want to look, didn't want to meet those mesmerizing eyes, worrying that if he did, he would lose control and blurt everything out.

God knew he wanted to. He needed to tell Dejan everything.

He almost did.

He opened his mouth, so close to saying something, but no words got pass his lips.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Dejan tried one more time.

Šime shook his head feverishly.

This was more than a private moment between the two of them, a shared thing of intimacy just theirs for the taking.

Something wild and ferocious.

The moment was gentle.

Secretive.

Something which no one could ever take away from them. They were the only ones who knew, no one else was needed.

The world had no place in this. It was theirs, and theirs alone. Just for the two of them.

Šime Vrsaljko was a dead man.


	5. Chapter 5

"Just act natural. Don't make it look too obvious." Chicken had told him. 

"You musn't give them a reson to suspect you might be hiding something." 

"So, uh... you want me to put it under the mattress then?" Šime asked, not quite sure what to do with the pack of Domaćica in his hands, knuckles still bruised and hurting.

Chicken looked at him like he'd asked the most obvious and absurd of questions. The inmate turned to Dejan, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath.

The other Blazers paid him no mind, as engrossed as they were in doing their own part, taking care of some other, unrelated business.

Charlie and Ola were also occupied, conversing privately between themselves. 

"Won't that be a little too obvious?" Šime inquired again. He waited for an answer, but no one seemed to have taken him seriously. 

Since he had nothing better to do, Šime skimmed the corners of Lukita's cell with his eyes. The gang leader's cell, often also referred to as the Grandma's, had all sorts of secret hiding spots serving for placing contraband in. 

You would be surprised at how many blind spots the Blazers had discovered. These guys were firm believers that every system had its flaws, and their job was to exploit its weak spots. The gang used the most despicable of methods in achieving their goals. Their methods were crude and gross more often than not, but at least they worked.

Domo had told him that he'd once hid a chip in his sandwich, swallowed it, and vomited until he found the chip later on.

Between all the rusticity and revulsion going on, was there no hope for something more moderate? 

Needless to say, Šime did not want to hear about that one time Rocket hid drugs in his personal undergarments. He considered that some hearsays were better to be left alone.

"Nah, man, trust me. We've done this before." He heard Charlie explain something to Ola.

"I got the jigs, don't worry. Ain't nothing there that can surprise us anymore."

Šime glanced around until he was sure that no one paid attention to what he was doing. He unpacked the Domaćica as quietly as he could, then took one biscuit from the pack.

"Nuh uh, no eating until we're done here." Dejan's hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him from putting the Domaćica in his mouth. 

"To hell with it," Šime sneered, "Stop telling me what to do!"

"What got you knocked off your square this time, bagudino?" Dejan teased him. "Don't be such a pussy."

"Oh, so _now_ I'm a pussy." Šime retorted. "Believe me, I don't need behaviour advice from some lowlife coon prepared to sell his own mother for a price high enough."

Something changed in the look Dejan was giving him, his lips no longer formed the playful leer Šime had gotten used to. "Fuck you, bagudino. Don't act like you think you know me." Dejan snarled.

"Let go of me, Dejan." Šime tried to wrench his arm free, but Dejan's hold was unyielding. 

His cellmate seemed to be having an internal debate on how to proceed from here on. "You know nothing." 

"Let. Go." Šime put an emphasis on every word, hoping Dejan would get the message already. 

Dejan tightened his hold for a moment, then released Šime's wrist. He was clearly still angry, but unsure if he wanted to smack the top of Šime's head or throw more vulgar curses at him.

Šime's mood was no less bitter that Dejan's, he threw daggers at his cellmate with an ice-cold stare, then turned around in a hurry, barely avoiding what could have been the most embarrassing collision with Chicken. 

"Šime wait—"

He stormed out without looking back, didn't slow down even when he could still hear voices calling after him.

Trusting Dejan had been a huge mistake.

He cursed whichever maddening idea it was that had him thinking back about the two of them, cramping against each other in the confined space of Dejan's small lower bunk.

No, no, no, no—they hadn't cuddled—no really, they hadn't. Nothing happened between them, nothing has changed. What the two of them did last night—what happened between them—there was nothing even remotely sexual about it. Not in the slightest.

It was the little things which broke him.

Dejan's thump reassuringly caressing the back of his hand...

His body leaning on Dejan for support. Dejan holding him tightly, not letting go, not letting him slip away.

Dejan pressed against his side, heat radiating from his body, purging his troubles and anxieties. 

Whatever worries came his way, his thoughts always found their way towards the man. Maybe it was just the voice of his deluded mind mumbling nonsense, but Šime thought about him more often than he'd like to admit.

Dejan's eyes. Oh God, his eyes. 

He could mesmerize Šime with just one look from those enthralling orbs, captivating his very essence. 

Just between the two of them, Šime felt like a captive imprisoned by the spell of those fascinating eyes, that spellbinding opia kept him detained. Only within this reverie he was willing to gladly accept that role. From that he felt no urge to escape or to run away. 

He had no idea if Dejan was aware of it or not, either way, he had Šime wrapped around his little finger. 

Every time their hands touched, every moment their skins made contact, the ache brought him a step closer to insanity. It was driving him crazy—Šime felt like a madman without an anchor. 

Did Dejan not know? Or was it that he didn't have a spare fuck to care? 

If he had any clue regarding that, would he have still whispered those sweet, honeyed words into his ears? Would he have still acted all the same?

The urge, the desire, the longing... Far too dangerous for the likes of him.

Those damned feelings, those cruel, torturous sentiments. Forbidden pleasures were the sweetest, deepest desires and taboo secrets. 

He knew it was surreal and bizarre.

To attempt struggling was futile, as weak and frail as his self-control was, it could hardly expect to offer resistance.

The strings of Šime's fate lay in its hands, depended on its mercy, he was overpowered and helpless in the face of temptation.

On the contrary, he did not wish to fight it. He wanted to lean in, to lose control, to let everything that was sinful devour his unworthy being. The said desire was stronger than him.

That persistent craving compelled him into a surrender. Šime made the mistake of letting it happen, giving it power to grow. He had opened the Pandora's box, he had fallen for a well laid trap, torn himself apart.

Bad choice.

He fell for it. He fell for the deceitful, mendacious trick.

He fell in love with _Dejan Lovren_.

So... Šime had, not surprisingly, made a cretinous mistake once again. He had it coming in the long run, the only surprising part of it was that his foolish mind hadn't thought of comprehending the possibility. Big deal. What did he expect?

He shouldn't have reached out so instinctively, driven by anguish and desperation. 

Šime walked the corridors alone; crowds of people got passed, screeching, yelling and hollering, but it was all white noise to his ears. 

Šime was a dead man lost in his convoluted thoughts.

_No..._

_No matter how angry he was..._

He slowed down, conviction wavering, he couldn't do this. He couldn't make this decision... couldn't kill Dejan. Not after all the moments they've shared, not after everything they've been through.

Šime bit the inside of his cheek, tried to clear his thoughts—tried to brace himself for the inevitable.

He couldn't get pass the dead end, there was nowhere for him to go.

He made a mistake. 

... And now Dejan was supposed to pay the price, was expected to serve as an atonement for Šime's sins, suffer the consequences for his wrongdoings. 

A payment in blood was in store. No choice. No other way out. 

_If he could—_

In the core of the frenzied vortex than now represented his mind, between a gazillion of thoughts and whims, there was one which stood out and managed to catch his unwavering attention. 

Šime stopped in his tracks, manic thoughts stilled. Time stopped altogether. 

What if... he didn't have to?

He was the one who started this mess. The Blazers, Dejan... none of them asked for the disarray.

Šime had fucked up, messed with the wrong kind of people practically asking for trouble, and he gave them exactly what they wanted. 

No, he had done this to himself. 

Why the unnecessary pretense? He wasn't the one to delude himself with bullshit. Šime had been aware that he was doomed the moment he set foot in this facility.

There was another way out—a risky and a dangerous one—but a way nevertheless.

Doyle's cell wasn't a shared one; he wasn't permitted a cellmate, not after he had strangled his former celly using nothing more than a pair of shoelaces.

If that brute was in there now, there was a good chance Šime could catch him unaccompanied, unaware. 

Toothbru—no, stiletto in hand, he gritted his teeth and tightened his hold to the point it became almost painful. 

Damn this prison, damn Doyle and his blasted Southmobs.

Šime had always been too impulsive and hasty in passing judgement, too reckless in decision making. 

It was now or never, he supposed. If he could get Doyle of his back, he would also get rid of the Southmobs. 

It would be so easy to make it stop, to end it all. 

He was capable of repaying for misapprehension on his own, this seemed like the right time to settle old scores. 

... And Dejan would _live_.

For Dejan. He could do it for his sake.

He could—

Before Šime was able to finish that thought, he collided face-first into a solid chest. There was an unmistakable grunt of pain, the owner of said chest instinctively tried pushing him away. Šime staggered, barely reminding himself to regain balance on time. 

The man hissed as he held his hand and examined it, he acted as if the movement itself pained him.

Šime was downright confused. It would be a lie to say that he had been fully aware of what was happening. Everything around him felt surreal, like some sort of an out-of-body experience. 

Again, he tried to focus, tried to get that fleeting, roaring feeling under control. 

Šime has never considered himself particularly unlucky, but today unmistakably just wasn't his day.

Not when one of the source origins of his problems stood right in front of him. Mr. No Good cracked his knuckles, ready to throw hits and punches. Šime prayed to God, desperately hoping that wasn't the case.

One slip up, one wrong move, it was all it took and he'd be done for.

"You punk! Why'd you try to stab me!?" Mario shouted in his face.

...What? That was absurd. 

How... could he say that? Šime wasn't trying to...

He locked eyes with Mario's seething ones, a heated rage burned inside of them, ready to lash out. He clutched his hand in outrage, palm visibly bleeding from a long, diagonal cut. 

_No good._

No good at all...

You wouldn't like him when he's angry, a pissed off Mario was never a pretty picture. This man was infamous for his huffish outbursts, attracting trouble like a magnet, and was more than willing to offer some at that. This Mario before him was seething with ire. He was a match ready to burn—a match which Šime cluelessly sparked into a flame, blazing with a frenzied vexation. 

_No..._

Šime gaped at him like a fish, wide eyes staring in disbelief.

"What the actual, flying fuck?" he swore, "And what the hell is with the sharp fuck you're holding? Where did you get that?" Mario pointed at the improvised stiletto Šime was clutching. 

"I.. fuck man, you know I wouldn't..." 

"You're still holding it!" Mr. No. Good yelled in outrage.

"Mario... I.." he wanted to say something, wanted to justify the incertitude of his actions, even thought the attempt would have surely been futile.

"I warned you! Didn't I warn you, you little fuck?" Mario snarled as he pushed him.  
Well... he was in for it now. Good job, Šime, good job.

He has reluctantly made peace with the fact that he was about to become Mr. No Good's newest punching bag.

Seconds passed at a grievously slow pace, Šime could already picture himself lying in a pool of his own blood.

It seemed that Mario was more than willing to indulge in that thought. No sooner after Šime had come to the conclusion, he braced himself for the hit that was surely to come.

Anytime now... at any moment...

What was he waiting for? 

The instant felt longer, even though it was all a matter of seconds. Šime opened his eyes, unaware that he had unwittingly closed them in the fist place. 

He was... alright. 

The relief died down momentarily when he realised just who was it that had unnecessarily come to his rescue. 

_Dejan_ was here. He followed after him.

Šime would have felt smug about that if it wasn't for the fact that the man he had a crush on and the man who almost crushed him were... well, engaging in a fist fight.

Dejan used a wide roundhouse to hit Mario right under the ear, and Mario responded with a kick in the stomach.

_His fault. It was all his fault._

"No! Stop it!" Šime yelled, dropping the stiletto and trying to separate the two.

"Dejan, stop!"

He had enough, couldn't take anymore of this—couldn't bring himself to watch.

"Come at me again if you dare." Mario taunted Dejan. "Hit me again and see what happens."

Dejan wasted no time, he did not hesitate. Šime tried to stop him, but Dejan would have none of it.

The moment when his fist collided with Mario's nose, Šime's blood turned to ice, heart skipping a beat. The abused organ had suffered great pains, but nothing made it tighten more that the sight of two people he cared about fighting because of his mistakes.

What had he done?

Šime looked down in horror, he spotted droplets of red on the floor. 

Mario shoved Dejan hard until his back hit the wall, Dejan returned the favor by hitting Mario right across the face.

His head lolled to the side, Mario coughed violently and felt something wet and sticky trail down his face. He brought a hand up to touch his cheek, hissing at the sharp sting of pain which followed. He looked at his hand, fingers trembling, it was smeared with more blood, he could taste the same metallic substance in his mouth.

Was the blood his? 

Yeah, some of it at least. Why should he care about that, anyway?

He wanted to hit him again, and again. And again. He saw red. Blood was the only thing he could think about.

Mr. No Good loved the pain. He strived for it—he would not go as far as to call it machohism—there was something about those hot flashes of pain and pulsing, throbbing bruises that excited him.  
He welcomed the physical ache with open arms, It made him feel alive, reminded him of what was at stake.

He had no alternate way of solving disputes, intimidation tactics and threats of violence were the only two ways he solved his problems. Needless to say, both were flexible enough for Super Mario, he swung both ways. 

If he was going to die, he didn't want to know about it, didn't really care at this point.

Nobody cared if he lived or died. Nobody gave a fuck.

He attempted to reach Dejan again, but someone's arms wrapped around him from behind, not letting him move.

"Calm down, Mario," Lukita's voice spoke in his ear. "This is madness, you need to stop."

Nobody cared...

... Nobody except for _Lukita_. He was the only one who cared. 

The Blazers wouldn't have wanted him, wouldn't have accepted him if it wasn't for Lukita. For all the rumours about his past, for all the trouble he got into, no one else would have given him a chance.

That's why he was like this. Lukita was the only reason he hadn't lost it and went on a prison murder spree.

He would have fought them all. He would have fought them tooth and nail if he had to.

If there was an universal truth he knew, it would be that the boss was more than worth fighting for. He was the only merriment that kept him alive in this hellhole.

That is why no one must never know. No one must ever suspect that there was a person he cared about, a person he admired.

_Loved_.

He was still capable of such feelings. He wanted to feel close to someone, if only for a moment, wanted to a allow himself such luxuries. 

But now one was allowed to know. If Šime had let his tongue loose, Mario could have had even worse things prepared in store for him.

This treasures secret was his, and his alone. 

Mario coudn't bear to live with the fact that someone else knew.

It would mean that someone was aware that Mario had contradicted himself.

It would mean he had broken his own oath: needing someone more than just himself.

 


	6. Chapter 6

****A heavy veil of silence dropped over the narrow cell and enveloped the two occupants like a thick, soundless blanket. The muted noise felt as weary as a gruelling weight dropped over a frail pair of shoulders. And If it weren't for the renewed sense of claustrophobia making it feel as if the very four walls were closing in on them, Šime suspected he would have been choked by some other, different kind of entity.

An entity called _Dejan Lovren_ to be precise.

The same one who was now clenching his hands around an invisible throat fueled by an intense desire to squeeze the non-existent life out of it.

As Šime watched his cellmate from behind, he could see Dejan's pissed off form bent over the sink, eyes closed and brow furrowed.

Šime gulped.

An unpleasant thought just crossed his mind: what if it were his throat which Dejan's bruised and bloodied hands wanted to wrap around and suffocate? 

What terrible falsehoods must have been roaming through that head of his? Did he also believe that his new celly had double-crossed him? Šime shuddered just at the thought of it. And after he'd seen a puddle of Mario's blood smearing the greasy floor, becoming a direct target for Dejan's menacing side was one of the last things he wanted. 

That particular thinking process invoked a certain type of concern inside of him, like a surprise in a form of a sudden, cold shower. Šime was confident when it came to his moderately good fighting skills, but even he had to admit that Dejan wasn't an opponent he'd willingly face in a fight. Sure, he may have been able to hold his own for a couple of minutes if the situation really called for it...

But we're talking about a guy with experience here, a man who faced Mr. No Good _himself_ head on. Not to mention how he'd gotten out of the fight with all vital organs intact and none of his limbs ripped off. 

The contraversial circumstances of the fight must have reached Lukita's ears by now, which meant the Blazers would most likely lose all of their trust in him if that hadn't happened already. The trust Šime had thrown into the wind, the reliance he'd lost so carelessly, and that's not even the worst of it.

He'd barely joined the gang and was already at the brink of getting thrown out of it. What a real phenomenon it was that they hadn't decided to kick him out by now and beat him bloody after all the misfortune and nuisance he'd caused to the Blazers.

How was Mr. No Good supposed to handle this? He must have gotten the wrong impression of... what? 

Šime the snitch? Šime the turncoat? The betrayed that spilled the beans? 

Mario must have thought of him now as nothing more than a filthy rat who did what the Southmobs told him to do in order to save his own skin. Had he not fucked this up, Dejan wouldn't have been covered in freshly received bruises.

But how could he have known?

It has been two days since the screw-up. Two days since his careless misstep had caused a disarray between them, soemthing what could have been a catastrophic, deadly clash.

The Blazers were in luck for having separated Mario and Dejan on time, as both inmates were infamous for their stubbornness and unwillingness to back down, Mario maybe even slightly more so than Dejan. On this battleground filled with murderous intents and bodies used as punching bags, who knew whose would have been the first to hit the ground. 

Not to mention the harsh bother of the prison life constricting their freedom and the Southmobs constantly breathing down their necks, the last thing the Blazers needed was more trouble served on a silver platter...

But at least Šime had gotten his fun, right?

Wasn't this what his selfish, miserable self had wanted in the first place? Was this wild enough for him? Enough excitement, plenty of thrill and adrenaline? After all that hassle, at least he had the decency to accept the guilt and self-reproach which nagged at his consciousness.

Šime swallowed hard, attempting to fight down the guilt which was threatening to overwhelm him. "Please, I..." he tried to say something, tried to justify the incredulity of his actions even thought he knew it was in probably vain. "It's not what it looked like... I would—you know I would never..."

None of this would have happened if it weren't for him. His sloppy mistake could have undoubtedly costed Dejan and Mario more than just a few ugly bruises and a temporal hostility. He was the one who caused this catastrophe. Šime had played with fire, he'd toyed with something he shouldn't have which inevitably led to the likeliest possible outcome: him getting burned. 

But not just him, no. 

Šime knew his action had consequences. Consequences which affected not only his reckless self, but also Mario, Dejan and the other gang members. How ironic it was for one who called himself a blazer to catch fire and almost get swallowed by it.

The contradiction was so ridiculous Šime would have laughed at it if he wasn't already trying his best to suppress tears.

As if his poor attempt at apologising had gotten Dejan out of a trance, the former mobster finally came back to his senses. "You would never, huh?" Dejan snorted, "Is that why you tried to stab Mario?" he turned around to face his cellmate. "Give me one good reason why I should even listen to you!"

Everything was too much; the stress, the frustration, the guilt, the blame. The hitching of his breath and Dejan's ireful stare. Šime's bottled up emotions were like a shaken fizzy drink; ready to burst out like an explosion made by all possible mixtures and combinations.

"Are you really so dense to believe that I'd just go around stabbing people without a fucking care in the world!?" Šime raised his tone to match Dejan's. "Don't get all bitchy on me, it's your good old friend Doyle who you can thank for all this!"

Dejan's expression was the one of pure and undisguised malice, turning Šime's blood into ice. "Doyle? What damned business did you have with Doyle? I told you to stay away from those fuckers! I warned you! Why didn't you listen? You could have fucking said something at least!" Dejan yelled back.

"And what? Risk getting my skull smashed? That's not even a remotely pleasant way to die if you ask me. You wanna blame someone? Blame the Southmobs, I tell you."

"No, no, no!" Dejan shook his head vigorously, "I shouldn't have let you wander off on your own in the first place! Fuck those ugly dickheaded punks! Doyle—that absolute scumbag—I can't wait to get rid of him and that blasted shitty bunch of his!"

"Well, there were worse ways to handle this, I'm sure." Vrsaljko added.

Dejan helplessly threw his hands in the air as a sign of defeat. "Are you shittin' me, Šime? Are you seriously shittin' me? In case you've forgotten, you're one us now. You are obligated to tell us everything, whether you like it or not!"

Šime couldn't take it anymore; the amount of exertion it took for him to keep a straight face was downright exhausting. All of this forced to admit something which he would never have even dreamed of doing under any other circumstances. "I was scared, okay!" Šime yelled at the top of his lungs. "I didn't know if I could trust you.. I didn't know how you would've reacted!" 

Dejan stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide and stare bewildered. "What? You know I would neve—will never hurt you!" 

"Oh, just leave it, man. Back up off me already!" Šime continued stubbornly.    

Dejan gaped at him for a moment, then shook his head, quietly muttering out a stray of incomprehensible curses. "You're unbelievable," he sighed. "We're not animals, you know. Just cause we punch each other on the shoulder from time to time doesn't mean we're all bogus assholes! What'd you think we'll do, skin you alive!?"

Šime swallowed hard, then turned his head to the side in an attempt to hide the salty wetness that unexpectedly flooded his eyes. "I'm practically ass out with more than half the dudes on this deck! Of course I'd think that!" 

"Hey, at least you have all your teeth in one place. What more could you ask for? I mean, Mario's head is still attached to his shoulders, no one poked out your eyeballs, and Rocket and Lukita hadn't made out on the dining table today, if that's what you're concerned about."

Šime felt so furious, so miserable and overwhelmed. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to spill it. "Doyle wanted me to stab you—wanted you dead," his words were almost a whisper, forced out of his hoarse throat, raw and hurting from all the previous shouting. "Don't you understand? It's you he wants, not Mario." 

Dejan didn't say anything, he just stared at him with an unreadable expression like he was considering something. 

Šime couldn't take it anymore.

He grabbed Dejan by the upper arms and shook him out of pure hopelessness, desperately wanting the other to understand. "I know what you must be thinking, but I swear to God," he tried again, "I could never have done it, I swear! I could never bring myself to do it! I would never, ever try to kill you or even consid—!'

"Wait, hold up," Dejan's amused voice cut him off mid sentence, "You really thought you could catch me off guard and shank me with that thing?" He stared intensely into Šime's panicked eyes, the confusion behind them telling him all he needed to know.

"What's so funny?" Šime asked in bafflement, slowly releasing the other prisoner. 

If the two of them hadn't been in the middle of a serious conversation, Šime would have had a hard time resisting the urge to complain about the loss of contact. 

No.

No more slip ups or any other show of weakness. To show vulnerability in a cruel place such as this could be fatal. Šime had learned that the hard way.

After a slightly wider filled the space between them, Šime let out what he hoped was a sight of relief. Partly because he successfully resisted the temptation of marvelling how good it felt to be in such close proximity to Dejan, but mostly because the former mobster hadn't shown any signs of wanting to strangle him.

The narrow cell denied them space to create proper distance, but it was enough for Dejan to get a full picture of Šime. He could feel other man's eyes trailing over him, measuring him from head to toe. 

" _You_ , killing _me_?" Dejan chuckled in amusement, his lips forming a devious smirk. "You think you have what it takes to take out this ol' beast? Really, what even gave you such a silly idea?" 

"Oh, please," Šime snorted, "I bet you're not even half as tough as you look. The only notorious beast I've heard of is Rocket's snoring." He tried to sound confident, but Dejan's words had hurt his pride more than he'd care to admit, not that his celly ever needed to know that. He had to stay strong, had to maintain his reputation, or what was left of it at least. 

"Nonsense," Dejan continued, his smirk couldn't have been more seducing. "You haven't seen me in bed yet, srce." 

Šime was ready to deliver an instant retort, but all words seemed to have failed him. Dejan has never before flirted with him so openly. Something has changed in the way those eyes looked at him. There was a burning glint behind them concealing a hidden promise. 

Šime gritted his teeth as he felt the blood in his cheeks creep up.

He was _blushing_. 

A playful smile visibly danced across the said cellmate's lips. "What's the matter, bagudino?" Dejan asked, "Cat got your tongue?" He was obviously more than pleased to see the two bright spots of color which painted Šime's cheeks in an alluring shade of red.

"Hey!" Vrsaljko squealed indignantly, "I'm not some ass muncher you can just sweet-talk into fucking like that!" 

"And you're not the first pretty boy to believe that bullshit. You'll change your mind, eventually. They all do." he winked at him, pleased that Šime knew what he was implying. 

_Fuck_.

He was blushing again. Šime looked down all red in the face, feeling those piercing eyes roam all over him, studying him.  
He bit his tongue to keep himself from blurting out something stupid, but it quickly fled his mind when the taller prisoner started circling him. Clothes against clothes, skin against skin, they were that close.

The other moved around him in an agonizingly slow pace, his steps light and quiet. It reminded Šime of dancing, of synchronised motion, not bumping into each other within the confined miniature space trapping them together. 

For a brief moment that seemed as long as a lifetime, Šime actually thought Dejan might get bored of playing with him and get on with the kissing already, but it seemed that the flirtatious man had other plans.

"Look at me, please." Dejan said in the softest of voices Šime thought he'd ever hear him utter.

There was the slightest hint of hesitation, just the tiniest bit of uncertainty in Šime's movements, like he was unsure of what the other man was playing at. He didn't know how many bridges he'd burned, if there were any left to begin with, but if this was his chance to make amends, then Šime had no right to refuse.

All he needed to do was get on Dejan's good side again and he'll be back in the Blazers' good graces before his slightly purple eye could blink. 

Right.

That sounded easy enough.

When he finally titled his up to meet Dejan's curious gaze, their noses were at the brink of touching. They were so close he could smell the already familiar scent of the other man's cologne.

Dejan grabbed a fistful of dark curls and tugging until the porcelain white of his neck was showing. He then dipped down, leaving kisses, trailing all the way down from the jaw-line to the shoulder blades.

"Damn, Dejo, you're better at this than my girl." Šime all but moaned, although he was a little unsure. He almost shied away, both hands discretely covering his groin.

He let out a gasp of surprise when Dejan's hands suddenly found his hips, holding them in place. He stood silently for a moment, their bodies pressed against each other. 

"What's with you actin' all shy out of the blue?" Another smirk graced the corner of those lips as he noticed Šime's bashfulness.

"Besides, we're all boys here, you've got nothin' I haven't seen before."

Šime remained quiet, chewing on his lower lip nervously.

"C'mon, let me see what you're hiding under these prison rags." Dejan suggested playfully, then occupied himself with getting his celly out of the jumpsuit. His movements were careful, mindful of both their injuries.   

After the orange piece of clothing no longer dotted the inked torso, and now dangled at the line of his hips, Dejan paused to admire his work. He let his gaze linger for a moment, focusing downward as he hungrily took in the sight of Šime's smooth tattoo covered skin.

"You know, Šime, I take it back, you're not half the pussy I called you out for." 

"Come on, what bullshit is this?" Šime's fingers trembled slightly, brushing carefully against Dejan's face.

He didn't understand how a man who spent the majority of his life working for fraudsters and murderers could be so considerate. He couldn't grasp the concept of it and that was what baffled him. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, Šime couldn't find the key to unlock the mystery which was Dejan Lovren.

The hands which previously hovered over Šime's crotch in a slightly predatory manner suddenly had a change of plans, moving upwards with a determined intent, promising contact.They hovered over the milky skin of his lower torso, eager to explore every elegant curve of his body. 

"It hurts like a bitch, doesn't it? Getting tattoos, I mean." Breathing faster, Dejan licked the corner of Šime's lips, hands roaming all over the slighter body.

Šime's heart hammered like it wanted to break free of his ribcage, pumping the red substance furiously in the veins.

"Huh?" he retorted. "Yes, a real pain in the ass." 

If you'd asked him back then, he couldn't have said why he'd touched him back or what exactly was it that he was doing. He was afraid of the gentleness, the softness that went against everything he thought he'd expected. 

"Good, and damn right it should, otherwise every other punk-ass bastard would have one by now." the other continued.

Šime took note of his own ragged breathing, the way his chest heaved and followed the rhythm of Dejan's body moving against his own.  

"I've always wanted to fuck an artwork—not one of the dead ones—I want the living, breathing ones, the ones that fuck back." Dejan snickered.

God.

Even his laugh was hot enough to make Šime's legs turn into jelly. He would have flushed even more if he wasn't already red in the face. If there was one thing he'd learned about D. L. it's that he had an extraordinary talented tongue, and no, it wasn't restricted to his marvellous gift with words. 

"I'm not an alla prima painting, man." Šime replied.

"No, but I bet you're wet like one."

It didn't take long for Šime to decide he wanted to play along. Following after his body's desire, he started seeking out contact of his own. His forehead was slick with sweat and the onyx coloured curls of his hair visibly plaster against the skin.

He was aware the former mobster's low rumbling. Dejan was submerged in enjoyment, getting drunk on the beautiful moans and whimpers his cellmate was making.

"Oh." he said when the moment of realization struck him. 

When one of Dejan's knees found their way between his legs, Šime couldn't suppress a moan. 

The hand that's been playing with the waistband of Šime's underwear slowly made its way downwards, teasing him, the anticipation leaving him breathless.  

There was a raging desire telling him to take, to clamp on those tender lips and kiss them until they were raw and then do it all over again. 

Over and over and over...

It was almost hesitant, sweet like the nectar. 

But wasn't it wrong? Shouldn't he be disguisted by these thoughts? Shouldn't they make him feel repulsed and ashamed? 

... Right?

And unlike the roughness of his scratchy beard, Dejan's lips were a bombshell of mellow softness. Intoxicating and divine, a cut above phenomenal, it felt better than tasting the rainbow.

Dejan took his time to properly savour it, enjoying the way Šime melted in his arms. He felt close to feverish, overwhelmed by the blazing flames of desire and lust. Šime was reacting, so responsive and willing.

Šime squeezed his eyes shut and did everything in his power to muffle out a high pitched whine. Dejan's palm dug harder and harder into his crotch and Šime could tell the man was also enjoying himself.  

"Trust me, Šime, I can make you feel so good..." Dejan practically purred, letting his breath tickle against Šime's face. "You'd like that, right? Just you and me and our old pal Mr. Bed. God, I bet I can make you screa—"

"Hey! But what if someone sees us!?" Šime frantically interrupted him. Someone really might catch them. What if this was all just a mistake?  

What if Dejan changed his mind? What if decided he wasn't worth all the trouble?Vrsaljko's instincts were screaming at him to shy away from the warmth.. 

Dejan's hands were still all over him, constantly grabbing and exploring, one of them sneaking lower, and lower, and lower until—

"Wait, Dejo—I don't think we should—" Šime said between heavy breaths, pushing the other man away.

"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to—did I hurt you?" Dejan demanded.

"No, It's fine, really. I'm alright... Just slightly overwhelmed." Šime assured him. 

There was a beat of silence, Šime thought he saw a flicker of regret in those eyes.

Šime felt like his very essence had been exposed, like there was no barrier dividing their linked quintessence. The whole world revolved around them. Every star in the cosmos, every shimmering vastness of constellations bowed before this singular moment.  

Dejan and him were at the centre of it all.

Their coupled souls were joined by this binding, no masquerade, no pretense. No room for any kind of half-truth or falsehood. The trepidations being forgotten, feeling detached from the obscure and the outer world beyond their miniature cell, Šime really felt like he could say it.

"You did nothing wrong. I... I like you, man."


	7. Chapter 7

"Watch your steps, punk!" a menacing, greasy looking inmate with crooked front teeth snarled at Šime after roughly bumping into him, with a push strong enough to knock him over the floor closure. For his part, Šime did his best to ignore the aching bruises, forcing his tired body move. 

He needed to get out of the way, pressing his side against the metal bars opposite to the wider clearing. Only raising his chin to look up after an unfamiliar calloused hand tugged at the fabric covering his right shoulder. 

He blinked once. Twice. Not really sure what was going on.

The hand yanked again, a little harder this time to make its presence known. Šime felt someone's breath on his cheek, then tightened his hold on the bars. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he straightened his back. 

"You have no idea how lucky you were just now. If it weren't for the fucking laws that one would've bitten off your pretty little cock. Don't believe me? It happened to dead Shorty over there, yeah it really did." The newcomer said, snorted in exasperation, coughing violently between loud breaths.

Šime hummed in response, as if contemplating what the other prisoner said, but only barely. He nodded slowly at that, had to remind himself to keep his own annoyance in check. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." 

It wasn't like Šime was keeping his distance out of some petty, nagging sense of dread or sheer nervousness per say.  
Now that he thought about it...

Did he even have a valid reason to be tiptoeing around the cell blocks, sneaking around like the lowest sort of mediocre crooks? No... well, maybe. 

It was all just happening too fast. And... he wasn't ready.

He knew he'd done worse at many points during his miserable, neglectful existence, but the sheer mischievousness could hardly match up to these macabre prison misadventures.

A whole new opportunity for screwing up. Wasn't that wonderful? 

He wasn't ready to go out there amongst the other Blazers—after everything he put them through—after all the ruckus he caused. Not when the guilt was still eating at his conscience, not loosening up, not giving him a moment of peace. 

Unfortunately, the Blazers couldn't read his mind, they didn't know what went through his head. Šime still owed those men a proper apology. 

And... that could partly explain why the side of his face was currently plastered again the monotone wall, all while the edge of the popping bricks dug painfully at his side, smell of it stale and rusty. Sweat trailed down his brow as he tried to blend in with the scarcer orange onesies surrounding him, laying low and waiting for the coast to clear. His body was still sore from the other day, serving nothing to fix his current predicament.

"Don't you think this is more than a little fucking counterproductive?"

Šime froze, even stopped breathing at the screech of an all too familiar voice just around the corner. He pressed his body on the ramshackle wall even harder, hissing as excessive movement made the wall rub against the sore spots on his back. He took a shaky breath, absently rubbing his bruised shoulder.

What if they _caught_ him?

He swallowed hard at the mention of that thought, trying to get a grip as he wasn't left with much choice. He quickly covered his mouth and prayed he didn't make a sound. 

"I thought about what he said. I mean what I mean."

Silence.

"You're all dumb as fuck. Can't you see? Lukita must have promised Mr. No Good a dome if he behaves. How more obvious can it be?"

"Get your asses out of your head, Super Mario didn't want to hurt that dude—he's gentler than chamomile baby shampoo—dude just needs some place to stick his meat, isn't that right, Mario?"

"No. Must you make everything sound so perverse? I already told you what happened." Mario's voice rose, but he wasn't angry.

"Yeah, very funny. Everyone here knows who's behind this, stop playing dumb!"

"What the fuck was that supposed to mean? I'm not a snitch, Luka! I would never think about going back there!"

"I didn't say you would. Just stop yelling for a second, will you?" 

"You know I'd never drop that low. That's too much even for my standards. I know where my loyalties lie, believe me. Look... I know I made some mistakes in the past, I know now that the Southmobs were the wrong kind of people to get involved with. And I'm not the same person I was, I swear. " Mario's voice trailed on.

"Hey, don't feel bad about it, the gang's been over this. No one minds."

"And you, Luka? Does it bother you?"  
More silence.

Vrsaljko's mind was a cocktail of buzzing thoughts and unceasing adrenaline. Mentally juggling between the slim odds of his survival and the frightening prospect of getting jeopardized, his eyes darted from one spot to another. Concentrating, frayed senses doing their utmost to shut everything else out while simultaneously being tuned in with potentially hostile surroundings. 

The prison entrant's entire focus was centred on the ongoing conversation, so immersed he wasn't able to pick up the muted sound of footsteps approaching him from behind. He was engrossed in what Mario and Luka were saying, mind working feverishly to connect the dots.  
"...Fine, but only if that's what it takes for you to stop hovering over me."

"You know... you're already the toughest guy amongst us. No need to try to prove yourself, I mean it." Luka's voice softened.  
"I know... I know. Thanks, I lost my cool there for a second."

"Yeah, I guess we've seen worse days, but Mario... talk to me."

Before Šime could blink, a hand shot out like a flash—and even before he knew it—it was already clamped over his mouth, securely pressing down and muffling any embarrassing sounds that might have escaped him.

In a split of that second, Šime's muscles tensed out of reflex, straining to break free from the unyielding hold, his body momentarily jolted in shock.

Eyes widening in surprise, rapidly moving. Searching for whoever was holding him captive.

For a nerve-wrecking moment, as the panic got a good hold on him, his mind conjured the most disturbing images of his own dead body dumped somewhere in the sewers, no matter how illogical it sounded.

"Shh, don't fret your cute little brains out, it's just me." Dejan cooed softly in his ear, one hand clasped around his not quite babbling mouth, the other immobilizing his arms. He was held like that until he stopped fidgeting, sandwiched between a wall and a man seductively breathing down his neck.

When Šime finally turned his head, he was greeted by a sultry smile on the other's face, looking catchy as ever. And like that wasn't arousing enough, Dejan decided to tease him with that infamous wink of his, leaving him metaphorically drooling. 

Šime was vaguely aware of just how hard his heart was pounding. His breath caught as he followed his gaze. Heat overwhelming him alongside those sharp flashes of excitement. 

Slowly, Dejan leaned in until he was almost impossibly close. "Just what are you up to, hmm? Having a peek at our bangin' buddies?" 

"—Shh, Dejan!" Šime hissed through his teeth, half ready to throw a fit.

"Why didn't you just say you wanted an up-close view? I could strip right now if you're feeling naughty enough..."

"Be quiet, they're gonna hear you!" His voice came out clipped, a little too strained, a little too tense.

Dejan snickered at him while displaying his best _is that a challenge_ face, too far entertained by Šime's irrational fears to take him seriously.

Their brief staring contest was broken by Šime's barely audible whispers of "Oh, no...", fiercely shaking his head when the glint in Dejan's eyes gave away his intention. He recognised that promise of mischief playing on that mind of his. 

It was undeniable.

The handsome bastard was going to blow up their cover.

"Dejan I'm going to kill you—no, don't you dare!" He half pleaded, half threatened to knock some senses into that devious man, but of course Dejan would have none of that. 

He had no more than a split second to prepare until—

Until Dejan came out of their shared hiding spot, casually making his way towards the others.

"You bunch of dicks are so loud I can hear you all the way down the hall." Dejan laughed, wrapping an arm around Domo's shoulders as the others made room for him to join the circle. "If you're going to dry snitch the fuck out of yourselves, well... then I would have been better off doing the dutch, am I right or am I right?" 

Mario, who was half relaying on Luka for support, all beat up and swooning from side to side, was certainly going to reply with a mean retort if Luka hadn't been quick enough to interfere. 

"He isn't wrong, you know," the leader joked, staring at Mario expectedly. "It wouldn't kill us if things went smoothly for once, for the sake of all of us, that is." 

"Alright, you don't have to break it down for me, I get it. " Mario sighed, then turned around until his back was no longer turned to Dejan. "Hey man, no hard feeling, right?"

"Yeah, I knew we'd laugh about it after you blew off some steam. I didn't wipe the floor with you too hard, did I?" Dejan smiled.

"Nah, we're good. How's the little pest of yours doing, though?"

"Dude got himself scared shitless, but I'm not worried for him." Dejan's lips formed the faintest of smirks, and it was a fond one at that, Šime was certain. "He'll have to get used to us being bogus assholes and all that eventually." 

"Come on, D.L, you know I didn't really mean that. I'll tell him I'm sorry when..."

That stunningly hot fool loved pulling Šime's chain far too excessively. He didn't even sugar coat it, and if Šime was being honest with himself—that foxy mobster was probably getting some sick kicks out of openly teasing him in front of every criminal they come across.

Not that Šime was any better himself now that he thought about it, but that wasn't the point. Dejan crossed these lines on purpose. Crossed them over and over again because he was just that playful. He loved pushing Šime's patience, enjoyed messing with him.

Again and again.

He kept teasing and testing, like he's daring Šime to make a move, undoubtedly wanting him to come out of his hiding spot.

But not in a spiteful or malicious way.

No.

For the past few days, it was like all he

wanted was Šime's attention.

Alright. He could do this. No problem.

Šime took a calming breath, braced himself for one last, final time, then made his way over.  
"I was not scared shitless, that's a lie." He retorted. His mouth tight with barely concealed anger.

"Oh, look who finally decided to show up. It's like you can kill a man with that stare of yours, Šime." Domo added smugly from the back. 

All of the Bazers's Intense eyes flashed at him, sharp and focused.

Or perhaps they didn't? His imagination was still running crazy then.

"Well, better do this now and get it over with." Mario nodded slowly, his thoughts preoccupied with thoughtfulness, as if he was pondering his next words. "Look, Šime... sorry about wanting to kill you back there, I thought you felt the same way, so..."

"No, I'm the only fucker to blame here. My fingers slipped. Uh... yeah, sorry about that." He licked his lips out of habit, teeth nervously grazing over the smooth pink texture.

"So we're cool again?"

"Sure, man, don't trip. I'm not the one to hold grudges." Šime said, doing his utmost to sound unfazed.

Chicken, who has been laying low so far, suddenly lifted his head and peered ahead to meet their gazes. "And you three are over it just like that? And just what dope have you been snorting?" 

"Yeah. Never seen anyone kick like that." Domo added.

"Then what do you expect we'd do? Unless you want shit to go down again, you're all free to get me to dance on the blacktop." Šime answered, then took a hesitant gander at the casual displayed bunch before him, unsure of his own judgement, worried that he didn't come off as too distrustful.

"Hey, no one is gonna punish you, no need to hold your mud. You're with friends now, so stop worrying about it." Luka reassured him.

"Let them be, will you?" Rocket sighed in frustration, looked at Chicken, who in response just shrugged nonchalantly.

"Don't try to distract him, he has a right to know." Mario shook his head, and continued. "They have their own bogus rules just to bug the rest of us. Trust me, it's not something you could have known. It's wrong, but there's nothing you could have done about it."

"Look, about that unfinished business they have with all of you, I had no idea, you—you said—he told us they didn't think we'd blame you." Šime uttered, staring blankly ahead, his mouth agape for a briefest moment, only to close it after he realized what was being said.

"They expect you to play their game, and you try to con them. Those are the rules, that's how they roll, rookies know better than to pry. "

"And they treat everyone like a last pile of scum-eating garbage, it's fucking humiliating. What is a guy supposed to do?"

Just standing there and feeling foolish, Šime didn't know what they were talking about. This dirty business of theirs, and affairs of bloodshed between rival gangs made little to no sense to him. It could all be just monkey mouth talk, for all he cared, he just needed to go with the flow, even if he had no idea what was all the fuss about. Right now, he didn't know which hurt worse; his ugly bruises or his throbbing headache. Even the hideous room felt like it was spinning, as if everything is sight was attempting to rotate, only to be flipped back and turned in the opposite direction. His fingers clenched around the coldness of the metal bench, holding onto it was the best he could hope for at the moment.

"And like I keep saying... The rules of the outside world don't apply here, for fuck's sake. It's only a matter of time before they get what's coming to them." Dejan spoke. 

"So we're out for blood, aren't we? I'd give up more than just my sanity for another go at them. You have no idea... " Šime suggested half-heartedly. He currently needed more than a lightheaded distraction to keep a certain good-looking prisoner out of his mind. The harder he tried to keep them out, the more often those dirty thought kept reoccurring.

It was a hopeless situation, it seemed.


End file.
